


Things I'd Like to Do

by WendyNerd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Dry Humping, F/M, Fingering, Unbeta'd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-18 22:05:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11883771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyNerd/pseuds/WendyNerd
Summary: Three days before the recently-abdicated Jon is due on the front lines again, he and Sansa have a private moment.





	Things I'd Like to Do

It’s late and quiet. They’re cozy, sitting on the floor before a blazing fire, alone. The new Queen in the North empties her bronze cup of Dornish Red and glances at the man beside her.

“So,” she says after wiping her lips, “You’re free from the burden of kingship, you’re now a Targaryen prince, and you don’t march to the front for another three days. What do you do now, Jon?”

He takes a while to answer, silently staring at the flames for several seconds. Sansa tries not to stare in too obvious a manner. He may have Stark coloring, but she sees the dragon in him with the firelight flickering against him, making his handsome face practically glow. But the way he acts is still Stark to the bone. He’s still quiet, contemplative. And not in the habit of thinking of his wants at all. Hence, why she feels the need to prompt it from him.

Jon empties his own cup with a hearty swig.

He shakes his head. “I suppose there are many things I could do. Spar with Arya, go hunting,” he looks into her eyes, “Try to get you to fall in love with me.”

Sansa’s heart stops beating and her mouth goes dry. She’s not sure how to respond. So she finds herself laughing nervously.

Jon smiles and shakes his head again. “I’m serious, Sansa.”

Oh. She shakes all over. Jon leans toward her, eyes burning into hers.

“I’ve not been able to look at you like a sister for a very long time,” he tells her, his voice dropping, “I tried to fight it. And I’d never, ever take advantage. Never force such a thing. But I had to tell you, at the very least. And now that we know the truth, now that I’m no longer your king… I can.”

The room seems to get warmer. Sansa can’t breathe.

Enough silence passes for Jon’s face to fall, for him to move away, crestfallen. “I’m sorry. I should have realized. You—”

“—Thought I was the only one,” Sansa manages to declare. This feels like a dream.

He gets excited. “Then you feel as I do?”

“Yes!” She casts her cup aside and takes both his hands in hers. “But I thought it was impossible!”

“I was afraid to say anything, considering all you’ve suffered,” Jon tells her, “Even after I found out about my origins. I was still your king, I didn’t want you to feel compelled.”

“Is that why you abdicated?”

“One of the reasons.” He reaches up and strokes her cheek. Sansa leans into his hand, reveling in the gentle affection. She can breathe again. She kisses his palm and looks into his eyes. She’s ready to drown in them. “But it’s the one I like most.”

“Well,” she says, straightening a bit, “Trying to make me fall in love with you is out. You accomplished that already. So what else would you like?”

He smiles. “A kiss or two, to start.”

Jon waits for her to lean forward and press her lips to his. His lips are soft and she enjoys the contrast between them and the coarseness of his beard. She finds herself pressing her forehead to his and letting their lips part. Their eyes are locked together, and she giggles nervously.

“I’ve never kissed a man,” she whispers, “I have only ever been kissed.”

“Well,” he replies, “I hope you enjoyed the experience as much as I did.”

She presses her mouth to his again. Their lips open together, their tongues meet. He tastes of ale. Good ale, though. One of the refugees that came from Karhold after it fell was the castle brewer, and for good reason. Sansa was never one for ale, but Tom the Brewer makes more than one type, and among the types are ones she actually enjoyed. She keeps a pitcher of what Tom called the “Scrumbale” in her rooms, which tastes a bit like cider, and it’s that she tastes on Jon’s tongue.

When they part again, their foreheads meet once more, and in a way, it feels almost like they’re spying on one another.

They’re at war, both have made great journeys, have seen battles, fought battles, seen men die, experienced magic, encountered dragons and greenseers. But this truly feels like an adventure. A small adventure, perhaps, but a significant one, and perhaps her favorite.

It feels almost childlike, despite the fact that many of her feelings now are not those of a child. But the act itself reminds her of snowball fights and games of hide-and-find. It’s a bit like dancing.

“You’ll want more kisses, I expect,” she breathes playfully.

“Aye,” is Jon’s response. “I’ll want as many as I can get before I leave.”

Sansa thinks for a moment. Fears for her are moths, fluttering about her heart as if it were a flame. A new one floats to the left side of her chest, she can feel the patter of its wings. But she concentrates. A bigger moth, a bigger fear, drives the new one away.

The bigger moth is the one about Jon, going off in three days to fight their supernatural enemy once more. And possibly dying. Those foul things have such power. And while Jon shall have a dragon to ride, so does the enemy.

“You may have as many as you ask for,” she says, still fighting off the little moth, “You may have whatever you wish, Jon. Only tell me. I’ll deny you nothing.”

She’ll do it for him. Even if the fear and memories come back. She has no idea if they will. It could end up being like she always dreamed before she was sold. It’s Jon, after all. Gentle Jon, who saved his aggression, fists, and blades for enemies.

His face falls a bit and he leans back, clasping his hands to her shoulders, not breaking eye contact.

“Please don’t make promises like that, Sansa,” he tells her, his face and voice like a grave: deep, stony, and dead serious. “What I truly want is to make you happy. And cause you as little pain as possible. It’ll be much harder to accomplish that if you deny me nothing. I’d rather have your trust and honesty than your compliance. You’re queen now, remember?”

He doesn’t promise not to hurt her. Joffrey promised to never hurt her. Tyrion promised to never hurt her. Petyr promised to never hurt her. Ramsay promised to never hurt her.

But she knows what he means, when he says he wants to  cause her as little pain as possible. Sansa’s not had much love in her life, what with her and her family spending so much time under attack and not being able to trust anyone. Most of the people she’s loved and been loved by are dead. But she knows from experience that those closest to you can be the ones to hurt you the most, and most easily. Whether they mean to or not.

People hurt each other. Sometimes, it cannot be helped. And Jon is not going to pretend otherwise. If he were lost in battle, for instance, that would hurt her. Leaving for battle at all will hurt her. He knows that. And he will not make promises that can’t and/or won’t be kept. They both know better.

He makes a true promise, and asks her to help him keep it. Asks things of her no other man has. To not feel obligated to him. To tell him ‘No.’ Unlike every other person she’s ever encountered, he doesn’t want her to be compliant.

“Very well,” she says, “Tell me what you want, and I’ll decide.”

There’s a few seconds where he just watches her, looks at her like a puzzle to solve. He removes his hands and crosses his arms about his chest. “I’d like to hear what you want.”

Many people who observe Jon’s quiet, earnest manner often mistake him for a fool. They are the same sort of people who decided Sansa was a fool as well. These type of people are always very, very wrong and in fact are usually the fools themselves.

Sansa’s as much of a fool as Jon is. Despite extensive efforts to educate herself since the war began, she cannot match him in military tactics. But he cannot match her in negotiation.

“In regards to what?”

He blinks. “Pardon?”

“What wants do you wish to hear about? What I want for my next Name Day? What I want for breakfast tomorrow? What I want our annual budget to look like? What I want the weather to do? What I want from you? What I want regarding the war?”

His eyes narrow, but his lip curls. “Alright then, what do you want regarding the war?”

“I want a harried messenger to burst in here in the next two minutes to announce that the Night’s King and his army have been defeated and that the war is over. If I can’t have that, a harried messenger with the same news showing up at any point over the next three days will do. If not that, I’d like you to destroy the enemy in your first battle and come home without a scratch on you. I general, I want us to win quickly, without losing you or Arya or anyone else.”

Jon nods. “And let’s say that happens. What do you want after that?”

She smiles. “Winter melting away at once. Your aunt and those lizards of hers flying South, leaving us free and independent, and never bothering us again. Everyone coming home. Repairs to the damage that was done to this country over the last several years. A good spring season and harvest to usher in a never-ending summer. I’d like to construct more cities in the North. Start by expanding on towns and ports like Wintertown and Deepwood Motte. I’d like to do a complete remodel of Moat Cailin and its surrounding areas and set Arya up there to start a cadet branch of House Stark. I’d like to build the North a proper Navy to protect us from Pirates and Ironborn. I’d like to make major changes to the old Bolton lands, perhaps parcel them out to deserving subjects, or settle them for the Free Folk. I’d like to do the same for The Gift. I’d like to draw up proper agreements with the South and the Free Folk. Establish proper relations for the Wildlings who don’t wish to settle in our country and with the South. I’d like to see the Riverlands properly seen to, possibly reinstate my Uncle Edmure. I want to establish new, somewhat knightly orders for the North, people who would join orders sort of like the King’s Landing City Watch. People tasked to preserve peace and order around the kingdom. Patrol roads, protect towns, guard farms and wilderness from poachers, prevent and punish crimes, that sort of thing.

“I want to get our borders settled, and build a whole new road network. Take measures to encourage trade and production. We have so much land that goes unused, so many resources untapped. I’d like to create and establish a system of laws, policies, and practices for the kingdom to establish a more coherent justice system and give some more rights to those who need it. I want to build glass gardens everywhere. I’d like to import some things from the East and the South. Practices from places like Dorne, the Summer Isles, and Braavos. Innovations and such.

“There has been talk of some clever person in one of the Summer Islands that has created something that allows them to create entire books in a matter of hours. The Braavosi and the Volantene apparently have introduced them. Think of it, Jon. Books will be as easy to get as horseshoes. They won’t just be for the libraries of the rich and privileged. Everyone will be able to have them. And if we could start with that, well, we could build schools so everyone can learn their letters. Books will be made so easily. More people will buy them, which means more paper will be needed, and we have more than enough trees to profit off of that. With more people learning to read and write, there will be more things that more people can learn. They can go on to learn other things like bookkeeping or healing or mapmaking. We could have more healers, and even build entire places for people to be healed.”

She runs out of breath and finds that Jon is smirking at her. It’s understandable that he finds this humorous. Admittedly, she is acting very, very enthusiastic. But Sansa can’t help herself. Ever since Jon named her regent, her mind has been awash with ideas for what might be done. What the future could hold. She hasn’t really been able to express much of it to anyone, though. Thanks to their current situation, all of her conversations have to stay in the here and now, the problems at their fingertips.

One could make a decent argument that in the ongoing crisis, time spent on a future that may never come is time wasted, so she doesn’t discuss it. But her thoughts, her ideas, those help her to carry on at the most difficult moments.

“I’m sorry, I just get enthusiastic.”

“Don’t apologize,” Jon tells her, rubbing his chin and grinning wide, “You just demonstrated another one of my reasons for the abdication. That way of thinking and enthusiasm is why I found the North in such a fantastic state when I returned from the South. So much had been built and stored, so many people were fed, our men were so well-armed. And for once, the lords didn’t dare to fail to acknowledge your part in all of it.”

Sansa blushes. “Thank you.”

“You’ve been ruling well through war, all while making plans for peace. Not many rulers can say the same. But what about you, personally? What do you want for yourself once the war ends?”

Sansa glances at her lap. Ah, the part he’s been seeking this whole time. “I’d like to expand and enhance our home in some ways. I was thinking about how Bran, Rickon, and I were prisoners here and I would like to create some new means of escape that only a Stark would know. Maybe create special tunnels or passages. But I’d also just like to expand other things. Living areas, for one. Not just for the family, but I’d like to create better housing for the common folk. I’d like to build more glass gardens, strengthen and update our defenses, that sort of thing. I also want to bring more of the things I’d yearned for as a child. I want to establish a more… open and cultured court. I want to bring singers here, and properly patronize them so they stay. And mummers and artists and poets and historians. I want there to be more celebrations, more reasons to bring our lords and ladies together in one place, not just when there’s war on the horizon. Things like festivals, tournaments, remembrance days, balls, banquets, or gatherings to simply discuss policy. Give people reasons to come here, help us build and develop things, preserve what we have, better our reputation among potential allies, and generally increase the level of happiness for our people. I want to live a life filled with all the music and art and theater and sport and dancing that I’d dreamed of the south having, but here. And in a way that serves and celebrates the North.”

Jon starts to look impatient, so she finally relents.

“…I also want to marry a man who will love and respect me, who will not try to usurp or dictate my rule, titles, position, or authority. Who will agree to a matrilineal match. I want to have children. A Ned, a Robb, a Rickon, a Catelyn, a Lyanna… I’d like to have an absolute litter. I want to have a love story that becomes the envy, aspiration, and inspiration for lovers, poets, and musicians for centuries. The sort of marriage that serves as an example to our sons in how to treat their wives and to our daughters in how they should demand to be treated. A husband who will be by my side to support me, help me rule during the day. I want us to retire to our rooms each night and rub each others’ sore muscles, joke and complain about the people we like the least, and drink by the fire with. All after we say goodnight to the children and tell them stories or sing them to sleep, of course. Who won’t be afraid to bounce the little ones on his knees during banquets or court sessions. Who won’t care if I don’t give him sons. Who will be willing to let our girls learn to fight, and our boys learn to sew if they wish. Who will proudly wear the clothes I make him, who will occasionally, randomly pull me into a corner or an empty room to steal a kiss or three when there’s no one looking. Who will still do it when I’m old, fat, and wrinkled.”

Now he’s grinning. “I want a wife who will take care of things, who won’t care about my lack of titles, who I can do great things with. I want a Robb, a Ned, a Rickon, a Lyanna. Daughters that look like Arya, or have lucky red hair. Who will have exciting ideas and aspirations. I want a great love with someone who makes me think of home, who knows me well. Who will strive to make the world better. Who will rub my old wounds in the evenings and sing our children to sleep. Who needs me for no other reason than that she loves me.”

Sansa tosses her hair and gives him a sly look. “Well, I’d say that our desires seem to be lining up once again.”

“Indeed. Long term, at least.” He smiles. “So tell me, on a more short term basis, what do you want for the next three days — aside from a surprise end for our enemy, of course.”

She can’t help but tease him again. “Well I think I’d definitely like some smoked salmon for breakfast tomorrow—”

“—Very funny,” he says, “What would you like to happen between us over the next few days? Particularly when we’re alone.”

“I certainly want plenty of time alone,” she tells him, winking, “For kisses and words of affection. For embraces where you stroke my hair and keep me warm. And I’d like to at least try some things. Even if we don’t couple, maybe… work up to it? I’d like to know what it’s like to touch you, make you feel good. What it feels like to be touched by a man who loves me. To be vulnerable, but safe. To be kissed in new places and new ways. To expose myself, be adventurous, try things to see how you react. To get used to being touched by a man in a way that’s nothing like what I’ve known before.”

His breathing deepens as she speaks. His eyes get a bit hazy. But they look straight into hers, and he still smiles. “Yeah? And how would you like me to touch you? Where? And kisses? What new places and ways for kissing would you like me to try? What would you like to try? How would you like to touch and kiss me?”

It’s gotten very hot in the solar. Sansa almost feels like panting.

“I… I’m not sure. I’ve thought about things, but probably not what you’re hoping for.”

Jon shakes his head in a good-natured way. “My hopes would probably fall short. Please, tell me, Sansa.”

She blushes and looks at her lap. Then she gets to her feet.

“Well, this isn’t something that involves touching or kissing exactly,” she says, refilling her cup of wine. She peers at the surface of the burgundy liquid, watching how the firelight catches it. “But I’ve had this sort of fantasy where I seduced you with how I… I… Well, how I dressed and did my hair, and undressed and undid my hair.”

“Oh?”

Sansa nods. “I have this two-layer gown. The top layer, the overdress, fastens at the side and is sort of wrapped about me, while the underdress is laced up the front. I’d have my hair pinned into a plaited bun with a few ringlets falling in my face and at the back of my neck. I’d come in while you were somewhat sitting and rather occupied, not paying too close attention, and act like I’m going to sit and knit or something. I’d undo and loosen the side laces, then ask you to hold onto a bit of ribbon or yarn. You’d hold out your hand, still focused on your task, and not notice that I’m handing you the end of the laces. Then I’d pull away and turn,” she sets her cup down and demonstrates. “And the overdress would come off, of course. And you’d notice and see me there. The underdress is more revealing. The neckline falls to about here,” she hold her hand to a level on her chest below the tops of her breasts, “And I’d be standing there and you’d see me and get so excited. You’d try to kiss me, but I’d pull away and tease you, then start undoing the laces at the front. But I’d only undo enough for my breasts to be on the brink of full exposure. And it would loosen the whole collar, too. So the sleeves of the dress would fall and my shoulders would be exposed.

“And then I’d smile, tease you a bit, ask you what you thought of me, and once you’d flattered me enough, I’d beckon you. You’d rush to grab me, we’d kiss. And the first thing you make for isn’t my bodice, but my bun. You’d unpin it and unwravel the braid so it falls loose over my shoulders and down my back…”

Jon is kneeling now, his mouth open, panting. “And what would happen then?”

Sansa feels a bit less bold in answering that question. The truth is, she’s imagined more than one way it could go from there. “Well, you’d rip off your doublet and tunic, then go for my laces as you kiss my neck. Once my bosom was out, you’d play with them.”

“Just hands, or mouth as well?”

Sansa goes even redder. “Both, I suppose. I’d be running my hands up and down your stomach until I went for your belt. But the moment I touch the buckle, you reach down and sweep me up, and carry me to the bed or a table or the rug or whatever semi-comfortable flat surface available. You’d pull off my underdress and my shift, remove everything up top and kiss me all over. My neck, shoulders, collar, breasts, belly—”

“—Working my way down and leaving you convulsing with need,” he interrupts, getting to his feet, “Reaching the band of your smallclothes, taking it in my teeth and tearing them off.”

Sansa gasps at that. She’d not thought of it, but the idea provokes a powerful sensation from her.

She nods and sighs, then looks him in the eye. “And then?”

Jon takes a few deep breaths. “I’d tease you, too. Once they’re off, my mouth and hands go to your thighs. I roll your stockings down off your legs, then kiss my way up from your ankles, to your calfs, to your thighs until you’re begging. Then I kiss your wet mound. On the very top, on the outside. I kiss the hair there, it’ll be red too. I stroke your folds a bit before finally parting them to reveal your nub. I’d circle it with my thumb. Then attack it with my lips and tongue. Attack it mercilessly. Your legs would be hooked about my head, so your cries would be a bit muffled. My fingers would move to your entrance and I’d fuck you with them as I feasted at your nub. I wouldn’t stop until you start begging me too. I’ll make you peak hard and often enough that you literally can’t stand anymore and your whole body is sort of vibrating. How would you like that?”

He’s inches from her. Their wine is forgotten and their eyes are locked. It’s so hot. And hard to breathe. But at the moment, there are things she needs even more than air. They don’t touch, though. Not yet.

“…And then?” Her whole body burns and aches. Pressure builds up deep within her.

“You tell me,” he grunts.

Sansa bites her lip and tries to think. “I… I’m not sure. I’d probably be senseless at that point. But maybe you would… you would get your… your… you would remove all clothing below your waist. And since I can’t take anymore just yet, you wouldn’t enter me at that moment. But you’d grind against me. I’d recover a bit and reach down to take your… well, it in hand. Get a sense of its size. Its weight, its length, its girth. I’d stroke you and ask you what you would like to do with it. I’d make you answer. Then I’d make you beg. And I’d agree. We’d press ourselves against one another as much as we could during the act. You’d pull out just when you’re about to spill and empty it between my legs, just outside of me. Or, if we’re married, you’d give me a babe.”

His chest is rising and falling as if he’d just sprinted fifty miles. “Sansa,” he gasps, “I’d… really like to… press myself against you… And touch you beneath your skirts… If… If you are… willing.”

She answers by hurriedly unlacing her entire gown. Her heavy woolen skirts were bulky and would get in the way. Now in her shift, she gasps. “Take off your tunic.”

He almost trips over his own feet in the rush to strip his upper body. Once he has, Sansa takes a couple moments to admire the contours of his chest and stomach, trying not to wince at the fleshy chasms that the blades of his so-called “brothers” left behind. There’s no time now, but when they’ve reached their pleasure, she intends to kiss each rupture in his flesh.

Sansa lifts the skirt of her shift and presses herself against him, pressing her palms to his chest. He reaches down between them and his fingers find her sex. But it’s awkward. They can’t get the right friction or rhythm this way.

“Turn around?” He whispers. Her stomach turns.

“No,” she whispers, “Not behind me.” She pulls his hand out of the way and goes to unlaced his breeches. With just his small clothes in the way now, she positions herself just so that the right part of her is grinding against his shaft. They moan in unison. His hands find her hair. Her mouth finds his neck.

He spills before she peaks. As soon as he does, though, he grabs her and pushes her so her weight is supported by the back of a chair, parts her legs, and brings his nimble, calloused fingers to her core.

“Show me, Sweetling,” he whispers, “Come for me, Love. I want to see your bliss.”

It’s like something’s grabbing her from the inside, twisting her, wringing everything wrong out of her and leaving her with ecstasy. Her eyes roll back and her back arches. For a moment, there’s a stillness, until she comes apart, loose and free.

This is certainly something new. But when she recovers and the world comes rushing back, so do her concerns. She finds herself throwing herself in his arms, burying her face in his chest. He cradles her head and makes soothing noises.

“What’s amiss, Love?”

She looks up at him. “Daenerys will never let us be together, you realize that? She already thinks I’ve stolen the North, she will not allow me to steal you as well.”

“You’re no thief,” he insists, running his fingers through her hair.

“That’s not for you to decide. It’s what she’ll think.”

“I already told her things are finished between us.”

“Were you thinking of me when you did?”

He pauses, an admission of guilt as good as any other. “I’ll threaten to supplant her if she comes anywhere near you.”

“And you think that’ll work?”

“There are plenty who don’t like what she did to the Tarlys. Who prefer the home-grown son with the better claim than the foreign woman with her barbarian hoards. It will frighten her sufficiently, I think.”

“The dragons…”

“Obey me as well, and will not harm anyone under my protection. I’m certain of it.” He cups both her cheeks and smiles. “No time for more worrying, My Love. We only have three days left.”


End file.
